


and the maker sent his light

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alain didn't dare hope for anything more than the Circle, but sometimes we do get what we deserve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the maker sent his light

They said the Maker never showed Himself to man. His holy Bride Andraste was the only mortal to look upon His glory. That’s what they said.

But a man came striding into the cave where they were all hid that terrible day, a man who did not wear templar armour, who did not wield the Maker’s name as a weapon, a man taller than life, who should have blocked out the sun.  
Instead, he brought it with him.

"Dear Maker," Alain whispered, for the first time in his life.

All he’d wanted was to be safe, to be warm, to know the luxury of falling asleep in a bed that was his. And the big, dark man had seemed so dire, so just, that he’d feared for Decimus, for Grace, for the other impressionable and frightened mages that had fallen under their spell.

"I didn’t know," he pleaded with the Maker’s warrior. "I didn’t know he was a… a blood mage, I didn’t know…"

"I’m not a templar. You don’t have to be afraid of me."

He’d been too terrified to notice, but the man had a voice gentler than the thunderous one Alain had expected, and his eyes did not flash with holy fury, but sought to hold his gaze, to reassure him — he meant no harm, to any of them. His sword was not for them, was never for them.

If he’d known, he would have warned him about Decimus, instead of fearing for the maleficar.

—

'I'm not a templar. You don't have to be afraid of me.'

Had Alain even an inkling of what lay ahead of him, he would have begged the Hawke man to let him go, let him go far away, perhaps to fabled Ferelden or even all the way to Tevinter.

Maybe the Hawke man would have taken pity on him, hid Alain himself.  
Whenever Alain thought about that, his breath would shorten and his palms would sweat.  
What would a strong, stunning man like Hawke do with a fragile, broken thing like him…?

—

Alain sweated under the heat of the Gallows, but it was better than being inside, better than being leered at by templars with twitchy hands and thin, cruel mouths, better than passing dusty alcoves and shuddering as he remembered indignities that occurred in those hidden places.

Was he not a man grown? Did he not own himself? Or would he always be property, chattel, the playthings of sick men?

He felt water trickling down his face, and passed it off as sweat.

"Alain?" The mage wheeled around, panicking, thinking to find a templar looming over him, but it was another larger-than-life man, a better man, the Maker’s mercy in sun-kissed flesh—

Elijah Hawke smiled uncertainly, and Alain realised he was staring.

"Are you all right? I worried about you after, you know… the whole thing back on the Coast." Alain couldn’t believe his ears. "Have you settled in okay? How are they treating you here?"

Alain meant to say something reassuring, something that would make him seem well-adjusted and capable, but when he opened his mouth, the truth spilled forth, and he watched Elijah Hawke’s pleasant face darken like the sky before a storm.

"I did my best to be good, Messere," he murmured, his heart hammering in his chest, and at this Elijah snarled and turned his murderous gaze towards the Circle doors.

"Please don’t be upset with me," Alain pleaded. "I couldn’t stand it."

—

 _I should have taken him out of this whole shitstorm when I could,_ Elijah thought, his heart in his throat, rage making his hands shake and lips quiver. But Alain had only wanted a return to normalcy, his taste for adventure quelled, and Eli had respected that.

There was nothing normal about the Kirkwall Circle, and he should have known that. He should have known.

"They’ll see us, they’ll— they’ll come after you, they know you were there, at the caves—"

"Come with me, anyway," Eli insisted, praying to every god whose name he knew that Alain would say _yes, okay, I’ll come,_ that Eli would not have to leave the Gallows knowing he was leaving such a sweet, sad soul behind. “Please, Alain. You don’t have to put up with this.”

There was trust in the mage’s gaze, beneath the fear and the uncertainty, trust and something less quantifiable, something hopeful and bright. Elijah latched onto it, fed it with the compassion he felt, the righteous fury he intended to unleash upon the entire city when the time was right, and the love he had to give, should Alain want it.

And Alain took a deep breath, glanced behind him at the Circle doors, and took Elijah’s hand.

—

Anders took one look at Alain and cast a surprised but grateful look at Elijah. “I wouldn’t have expected this from you.”

Eli chose not to respond to that, and instead put his hands on Alain’s shoulders, looking into his eyes.  
"Anders knows about the back-way into the estate. If you need me, don’t think about it. Just come. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Alain whispered, and because he’d looked flushed and faint, Eli had handed him off to the healer, and left Darktown.

He hadn’t expected Alain to come, but in some small way he’d hoped, and when the moon was high he heard a small voice in the narrow room adjacent to the downstairs parlour, and his heart leaped into his throat.

"I thought you’d be asleep," Alain whispered. "I… couldn’t. Sleep."

"Neither could I," Elijah admitted. "You want some food? Wine? Do you drink? I… don’t imagine they let you drink too much in the Circle, huh…"

He trailed off when the tears standing in Alain’s eyes spilled over, and dropped the book in his hand, and Eli knew then that this hard, breathless embrace he enfolded the mage into would be the first of many, and, well... thank the Maker for that.


End file.
